


Burial Ground

by Shiggityshwa



Series: If 10 Million Fireflies... [1]
Category: Firefly
Genre: Drabble, Gen, Inara POV, Post BDM, reflective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-11-12 17:20:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18015107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiggityshwa/pseuds/Shiggityshwa
Summary: Inara reminiscences in her abandoned shuttle.First in a prospective series of prompted Firefly drabbles taking place after BDM and somewhere in the timeline of the comic universe.





	Burial Ground

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt for this story was 'cemetery'
> 
> Also for the sake of retrospection, I have about half an idea what's going on in the comics, so if I get something wrong let me know and I'll mark this as AU.

Seldom did she have the opportunity to venture back into her shuttle alone. Some of the silks and tassel remained, their calming warm hues still welcoming, beckoning among the sea of gray machinery. When her and Mal made the slow transition of sharing a bunk, she’d been forced to leave the majority of her belongings for storage.

Mal reassured her it was only by happenstance that all remnants of her life as a companion remained entombed in this shuttle

To study for so long, to maintain a way of life ingrained in her from such a young age, and then having to abandon it with such haste—

Allows one emotional sigh to escape her, scraping off the regret from within.

The fear of an unknown future, while knowing exactly is in store.

How many clients had she entertained in this shuttle?

With how many has she shared this bed?

Would spend hours perching on the stool, scrolling through potential clients, listening to attempts to impress, to nervous stutters, and weepy pleas.

To threats on lives, hers, theirs, others’.

Now all her contacts buried, this shuttle a cemetery for many reasons.

Touching the soft tails of a tassel, she reaffirms herself. Different times, different jobs, different people. Can’t work as a companion forever—tea pouring, hair brushing, body massaging—all growing old as she does, and will not. The selfless need of putting other’s pleasure before her own, finding satisfaction in a satiated client is no longer fulfilling, not when she’s running out of time to be selfish.

No, this life wasn’t ripped from her hands at the declaration from a man who barely said words to her not meant to offend, but gently guarded in her cupped palm and released to flutter away as she watched its farewell.

 


End file.
